Shots of Life

If athletes are allowed to compete, they should also be allowed to win.

Every single time I see a story where a trans athlete "blows out" the competition, their performance usually ends up not being quite as dominent as claimed.

When you look at the fastest 400m times in high school competition, it greatly adjusts the context.

In running, a second can be an eternity. Most world records are only a few tenths of a second apart. And this trans athlete is a full 7 seconds away from a record set by a cisgender high school runner.

According to the New York Post, 7 seconds is a blowout.

College runners are getting times under 50 seconds. And the world record is 47.60—a full 10 seconds faster.

This trans athlete can't help it if she is in a league with a bunch of slowpokes. She won a race. She is pretty fast in relation to her direct competition. But she is not some spectacular speed demon who will dominate women's running.

Her time wasn't even at scholarship level.

The vast majority of the world's top sprinters are of West African descent. Just to give you an idea of the statistics, every world record holder in the men's 100m dash since 1968 has been Black.

So they are basically cherry picking ideal circumstances to make a trans athlete look overpowered—as Portland only has a 5% Black population.

If this race happened in Atlanta instead of Portland, the trans runner probably would have won 10th place and this wouldn't be a news story.

While it is true that Redmond Sullivan has had two first place finishes in tournaments since transitioning, if you look at her record, you might notice this isn't as dominant as claimed.

First I have to explain fencing ratings.

You have individual ratings A through E. The As are top fencers and Es (or unrated) fencers are the worst. The number after the rating is the year.

So a rating of A25 means you are a top level fencer in 2025.

Then you have event classes. They are also A through E but have an additional 1 through 4 difficulty variant.

The easiest tournament is E1.

It has 6 competitors and none of them have to be rated. So you are competing against poorly ranked people and have a much higher statistical chance of winning.

This is like playing basketball with all of your nerdiest friends and "accidentally" forgetting to invite Steve who is 6'4".

The hardest tournaments are A4.

This requires at least 64 competitors and must have at least 12 A-rated, 12 B-rated, and 12 C-rated fencers.

This is like being a 40 year old playing Halo against a hundred 12-year-olds all saying rude things about your mom while repeatedly headshotting you with ease.

You can view all of the event classes here.

If you look at Redmond's two first place finishes, they were in E1 and D1 competitions. (A D1 requires 15 people with four of them E-rated.)

She had a decent statistical chance of winning because the competitors were few and poorly rated.

If you look at her only A4 tournament, she placed 172nd.

I'm not sure I would call someone who placed 172nd particularly dominant.

She currently has a "D" rating overall.

When fencing in men's competitions, she was rated E. And she slightly improved to a D in women's competitions—though this is only with 3 months of data. She ended 2024 with an E rating in women's events. So maybe she improved to a D and a half.

No offense to Redmond, but she is not anywhere close to a top level fencer no matter which league she competes in.

Stephanie Turner, the kneeling transphobe, currently has an E rating and has never finished a year better than a D. By all accounts, she is evenly matched against Redmond and had a legit chance at winning the match. But it was an A2 tournament and she really had no chance of placing highly so I guess she figured this was a good opportunity to be a dipshit.

She is a coward who only took a stand when the stakes were lowest.

I'd also like to point out that Colin Rugg was quick to mention Redmond's first place finishes, but failed to mention that in the very tournament with this kneeling protest, she got 24th place.

It really seems like these trans athletes aren't trying to become dominant athletes by transitioning and they are just competing because they love it.

Payton McNabb had a genuinely tragic injury from a volleyball spike to the face. There is no denying that. When you watch the video of it, it's clear this was a brutal shot to the face.

But this tragedy was quickly capitalized on by the anti-trans propaganda machine. The context was significantly altered and an insidious narrative was constructed. Payton and her parents then jumped at the chance to monetize the incident.

You can hire Payton to dramatize her incident and repeat all of the common anti-trans talking points.

If you can't afford to hire her as a speaker, you can request to feature her documentary, "Kill Shot: How Payton McNabb Turned Tragedy into Triumph."

Possibly one of the most emotionally manipulative things I've seen in a while. After they discuss the injury you can just sense the coaching involved as they parrot every talking point.

Let's deconstruct exactly how Payton's injury was turned into propaganda.

First, all of the conservative news outlets reported on the incident. And they were sure to include details to give the impression this injury was severe, uncommon, and something only a trans girl could inflict.

The ball was going a blistering 70mph.

The trans girl was a towering 5'11".

Payton suffered a concussion.

The evil trans girl cackled in delight.

Of course, none of these details can be verified. The trans girl cannot tell her side of the story because if she identifies herself, it will put her in grave danger.

Let's investigate the claims a little deeper, shall we?

First, the ball going 70mph.

Not even remotely possible.

Elite level high school girl volleyball players can spike a ball between 40 and 50mph. Boys can manage between 50 and 60mph. So that is already debunked with a simple google search.

But I went a step further and analyzed the footage using a technique I learned from Adam Savage on Mythbusters. You take a known measurement (the width of the volleyball) and count how long it takes to travel a certain distance using the framerate. The ball went roughly 426 cm in 200 milliseconds.

I did a high and low estimate and the ball was going between 43 and 47mph, as best as I can tell.

Which is in the range of what a typical elite high school girl can achieve.

In fact, the world record for any woman volleyball player is around 70 mph. This was accomplished by professional player, Paola Egonu. She is 26 years old and 6'4".

The men's record is around 80 mph.

So they are saying this trans girl hit a volleyball as fast as the world record set by an adult professional athlete. And it was only 10mph slower than the fastest spike ever hit by anyone.

Okay, what about the trans girl being 5'11". That's pretty tall for a girl, right?

Not for volleyball players. In fact, it is not uncommon for high school volleyball teams to have players 6 feet and above. Many college and professional teams regularly have cis women that are 6'5".

Well, there is still the fact that the girl got a concussion.

You might be thinking... "That never happens. I mean, they are just high school kids playing a game. And a kid's game isn't dangerous. The *only* reason Payton was injured (as her parents imply) was because a trans girl was playing."

Did you know that women's volleyball has become so notorious for injuries that the NIH did an entire study documenting them?

Here are some highlights...

"In total, an estimated 214,302 female athletes aged 14 to 23 years were evaluated in EDs across the United States with volleyball-related injuries between 2012 and 2021. The ankle, head, and knee were most frequently injured, often involving strains/sprains, contusions, fractures, and concussions.

While sprains and strains were the most frequent injuries, head injuries accounted for the second most common diagnosis in both groups, suggesting that clinicians should maintain a high index of suspicion for concussion when evaluating players."

It would seem that head injuries are extremely common and there are literally thousands of cases of concussions.

Volleyball is fucking dangerous, yo.

This has to be a known danger that parents and players are aware of. They choose to take this risk despite the danger. They don't advocate for any kind of head protection or protective gear.

The reason Payton was so seriously injured was not because of a trans girl. It's because she was hit point blank in the face with a volleyball—just like thousands of others.

An event so common that when I was researching spike speeds and looking at highlight reels of Paola Egonu's world record spiking, one of the clips was of her bonking another player in the head.

The only reason this woman wasn't injured was because the ball had a chance to decelerate. In the first 400 cm of this spike, the ball is going so fast that the camera could not even see it. It just evaporated into a blur until it slowed down from air resistance. Just imagine if that woman was as close as Payton was.

Cis women are fully capable of causing these types of injuries.

To review...

They villainized a high school trans girl for hitting a ball only as fast as her cis counterparts.

They said she was a giant even though she is kinda short compared to other players.

They inferred only a trans girl could cause this type of injury even though it happens all the time.

They said she cackled like the Wicked Witch with no way to dispute the claim.

And then they gave her a bunch of money to repeat the narrative that they manufactured.

She even got to meet the president for selling her soul.

This is where anti-trans talking points come from. It is bad faith all the way down. Every claim is a lie or so twisted and out of context it might as well be a lie.

Is this really the side you want to be on?

We have in this equation many, many people who, more than anything else, fear their own deaths... the final and most dreadful loss of control. After they die (and here comes their greatest terror!) the young will remake the world in their own image... there being no (putative) grownups any more to stop them.

So they're presently trying to alter political structures all over the planet in such a way as to prevent the Naughty Youngs from too quickly undoing everything their (theoretically Wise Old) elders have done. They're intent on running your lives by their rules for absolutely as long as possible, even after they're dead.

...Now. There's a lot of "Don't expect the young to save us!" stuff out there, and sometimes I half suspect those other People are behind that too. (Admittedly, it's too easy when you're young and busy to blink your eyes open after a long night out and mutter "Yeah, you made this mess, save yourselves!")

But there's a way in which this is also ridiculous. Because... honestly. They expect a generation (indeed, more than one generation) raised on Luke Skywalker to fall for that?

Pitiful.

There are way too many potential heroes out there. Likely enough you're one. You don't even have to blow up a fully operational battle station to manifest this heroism! Just vote. Or help someone vote. Or more than one someone. Help voters in your community to register. Help defeat obvious attempts to gerrymander voters out of control of their own districts. Do the little things. Enough little things can't be stopped by the forces that assume everybody else to be as lazy and selfish as they are.

You outnumber the fascists. Stand up and act like it. "Snowflakes", they call us? Get enough snowflakes together and you've got an avalanche. Tried standing in front of one of those lately?

Meanwhile, I for one have no problems with saying, loudly, "Save us, O Young! You're our only hope." (Imagine me as a holographic projection if you must.) :)

And for now, I'll be out there doing what one person can.

Please, you do that too!

Not letting this get buried as well as this

But dad told me he had been at the oven with papa and they had stoked the fire, they poured wine and sacrifices bread and oil and meats to the flame, and begged the goddess to let them have family together to gather in this home, a family to gather around a hearth and to love.

And listen to their prayers she did, sculpting me from embers and ash and blowing life into me with a spark from her flames, kissing my forehead once before she left, leaving me forever with her mark on my face.

That’s what dad told me, and now it all makes much more sense.

I never ran out of s'more stuff, ya know? Even if I had definitely just used up my last chocolate for a cake, there’d be a new perfectly preserved package of it in my cupboard. Marshmallows empty cause of my hot chocolate? No silly, there is still some left in the box somehow.

I also play the guitar, at the campfires I always played and lead the chorus, but never do my fingers turn to blisters, and I never need to rest my voice.

It also explains why I have always been at home anywhere and with anyone, I could sit down, and I was home where I was and the people with me would be my family.

Other demigods mocked me, I am the child of the goddess of the home, of the hearth, a cooking deity they’d call her.

It was…rude, but it was fine, I could deal with it. I didn’t have a cabin full of siblings, but whoever stopped by was family, right?

And it was totally fine to leave me behind when they went into battle, I am no good with weaponry, but I could still follow them, grab some food for them, they’d be hungry after all the fighting.

And they seemed almost concerned when I ran onto the battlefield barefooted and in my hoodie and sweatpants and apron, rushing towards a dragon and a son of Thanatos.

Their screams were scared when the useless child of a goddess ran onto the battlefield, and this boy actually tried to hold me back, even if his arms were shattered and his skin was scorched.

They were shocked when the battle ended with me.

They would’ve known I can’t get burned from all the times I’d stumbled into the campfire or spilled tea.

They should’ve known I can make anyone and anything calm down quickly enough.

They should’ve known I can protect anyone behind me by raising my hand.

A hearth does not burn, it warms and nutures. A family calms and cares, not aggravates. A home does not abandon, it protects.

I am the son of Hestia, and my mother gave me the ability to be a hearth anywhere I went. It is safe with me, for anyone.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?” 

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer. 

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

@lindsayetumbls @elisaintime @nellachronism